


Keep Me Warm in Your Arms

by Morwen_Maranwe



Series: I'm a Flame and You're my Fire [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Age Play, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Facials, Hand Jobs, Insecure John, Insecure Sherlock, Jealous John, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Older John, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Younger Sherlock, gratuitous use of pet names, lots of facials, older/younger, talk of past child abuse and neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has started university, and John finds that this brings about a whole new deal of problems for the two of them.  It is nothing that they can't work through, though, with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling decidedly socially awkward after a bad day at school and had to write this. Oh Sherlock, I feel your pain. This story was inspired by the song “Unbreakable” by Jaime Scott (and I’ve never been more convinced that a song was written about a Daddy/little relationship in my life).
> 
> This takes place in the AU of my multi-chapter fic The Burning Life. These two stories have dovetailed now, but this series can still be a standalone. The only things you need to know are:  
> 1\. By this point in the AU, The Burning Life has concluded  
> 2\. Sherlock is no longer in high school  
> 3\. Spoiler alert for The Burning Life: John and Sherlock have moved to London together and are now living at Baker Street
> 
> Beta’d by beautifully_in_pain and jujubeans. First read-through done by Randommuffintpk.

*

“You should be at a better university, Sherlock,” John hears, as soon as he enters the building of 221 Baker Street.  Mycroft’s voice drifts down the stairs from the open door of flat B, and John sighs.  His young lover’s meddling brother is really the last thing John wants to deal with right now, after a long day at work.  He had been looking forward to coming back to the flat— _their_ flat, he still can’t help but think wonderingly—and relaxing with Sherlock, taking advantage of the marvel that is their life now that they have moved to London and into a flat together. 

He pushes those thoughts aside and hurries up the steps, though, because as much as John hates when Mycroft visits, the doctor knows that Sherlock hates it even more.

“I don’t know why you have an aversion to reaching your full potential,” John can hear Mycroft continue on in his snobbish, public school voice, “but I’m not going to just sit back and allow you to waste your time any longer.” 

John reaches the landing and enters the flat quietly through the door in the kitchen, peeking into the sitting room.  Sherlock is curled around himself in what he had claimed as his chair when they had first moved into the already sparsely-furnished Baker Street: an angular, sharp-edged leather seat.  He is facing the kitchen, but he is trying so hard to ignore his brother that he looks to be literally unaware of anything going on around him.  _Off in his mind palace, probably rearranging mental furniture_ , John thinks.  Mycroft is sitting rigidly in John’s more homely-looking chair, back decidedly not resting on the cushion, as if he is afraid to let his bespoke suit touch too much in their flat.  He doesn’t notice John in the kitchen behind him and so he continues talking.  John stands still and listens, interested in spite of himself.

“I never should have let it happen to begin with, leaving you in _that_ _place_ ,” Mycroft goes on, and John can practically hear the sneer of disgust in his voice on the last two word.  The elder Holmes means the secondary school where Sherlock met John, of course.  It wasn’t a _bad_ school, per se—the curriculum was good and it was known for its high marks—but it was nothing like one of the posh public schools that Mycroft had tried to force Sherlock to go to when his brother was younger.  Sherlock, wanting to have nothing to do with anything that his brother gave him, refused every offer of help from Mycroft.  Of course, that wasn’t the only reason that Sherlock had refused to go to a different school than the one where he and John had met.  The fact that he didn’t want his superior intelligence known for fear of bullying wasn’t something that Sherlock spoke of often, not even to John, but John knows that was a deciding factor in where Sherlock wanted to go to school.

“That’s neither here nor there, though,” Mycroft continues, heedless of the fact that Sherlock still seems to be ignoring him.  “The point is, I was gracious enough to allow you to keep attending that school, Sherlock, instead of one of the more prestigious schools that I…recommended.  However, you wouldn’t accept my help back then.  Now that you are entering university, though, we both know you could have scored high enough on your A-Levels to be accepted anywhere in the country.  You botched your tests, Sherlock—”

For the first time Mycroft’s words seem to rouse the teen and Sherlock scoffs and makes an irreverent twitch of his shoulders, as if the idea is just ridiculous.

“Don’t even try pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Mycroft cuts his brother off condescendingly.  “You were always such a horrid liar, even when you were a child.”

John thinks now might be a good time for him to step in, before their conversation turns into name-calling and rude hand gestures.  He clears his throat and makes his way into the sitting room.

“Mycroft,” he says in greeting, heading straight towards Sherlock to say hello to his lover.  “Didn’t know you’d be coming round today.”  This is John’s subtle way of telling him that he wasn’t invited, so kindly fuck off.

Mycroft ignores the barely-veiled request to leave, of course.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says, turning to give John a tight-lipped smile as he watches the older man bend to drop a kiss to the crown of Sherlock’s head.  “You’re back.  Very good.  Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” 

John notices that Mycroft doesn’t say, “you’re home”, but John is gracious enough not to make any comment about it.  If Mycroft thinks he can forget about the fact that his little brother is in a relationship and living with a man twice his age (who plays strange, kinky sex-games with him sometimes), if he just simply doesn’t acknowledge it, then John won’t burst his bubble. 

John doesn’t delude himself into thinking that Mycroft doesn’t know what sort of relationship John and Sherlock truly share.  It is hard to keep anything a secret from the Holmes brothers.  It is harder still when one particular Holmes brother happens to be the bloody British government with a conscience wracked by guilt over leaving his baby brother to the tender mercies of an abusive, alcoholic father for ten years. 

When John and Sherlock first moved to London after John left his wife, John had been sure to keep Mycroft informed of where Sherlock was, in order to ensure that the teen’s education and finances were taken care of.  This, though, meant that Mycroft now felt it was his duty to look in on his brother—even though he hadn’t felt it was his duty back when Sherlock was growing up in a neglectful home—despite the fact that John was now in Sherlock’s life, taking care of him. 

Mycroft had a rather unfortunate and annoying habit of showing up at their flat unannounced and uninvited those first few weeks, when their belongings were being unpacked and the two were still rather excited about the fact that John was finally free of the shackles of his suffocating marriage and were now living together.  Thankfully Mycroft had never come across anything brazenly scandalous or sexual, but the items he did come across could only point to one thing.  On one occasion, the elder Holmes had found an abandoned soft toy left out in the sitting room.  There had been a pack of crayons strewn about the floor in front of the fireplace on another visit, then a bottle of children’s Mr. Matey bubble bath set on the kitchen table waiting to be put away along with some other non-perishable groceries later on.  And once, while John and Sherlock were in the flat together, suffering through a dreadfully boring conversation with the man, Mycroft had been bold enough to dig through one of John’s half un-packed boxes in the sitting room and lift out a small carton of various sized, pirate-themed kiddie plasters. 

John always kept a well-stocked first aid kit on hand for all of Sherlock’s scrapes, cuts, and bruises.  He had instantly switched over to kid-friendly plasters after he had first brought one back from the surgery where he had found a job not long after moving back to London.  Once he had used it on Sherlock and had seen how the brunet’s face had lit up in delight, that had sealed the deal; John went out and bought all sorts of cartoon-themed plasters the very next day without a hint of embarrassment or shame. 

But _that_ day—with Mycroft in their flat, sticking his big nose in their personal belongings—John felt the heat rising to his cheeks as Mycroft held up the plasters and shook the half empty box in Sherlock’s direction.  “For your booboos, little brother?” he had asked mockingly, an oily smirk tilting up the corner of his lips.

That had been all that was said about it, though.  Mycroft had never brought the issue up with John, although the look he had given the doctor as he was leaving had been clear: _watch yourself_. 

Sherlock might think that Mycroft doesn’t care for him and only meddles in his life to be troublesome and annoying.  However, John knows that the older Holmes does indeed care for his younger brother, and doesn’t want Sherlock to be hurt any more than John does—Mycroft has just been doing a shit job of it for the past ten years, mostly because Sherlock has been fighting him every step of the way.

Sherlock doesn’t fight John, though.  He lets John care for him, in a way that he hasn’t ever let anyone before.  And Mycroft knows this.  It is the only reason why Mycroft let John take Sherlock away to London during the middle of the school year and why Mycroft allows John to continue his relationship with Sherlock, even though John could have gone to jail at the beginning of it because—despite the fact that Sherlock had been legal—John had been Sherlock’s teacher.  And it is why Mycroft implores him now.

But at this moment, standing in his sitting room next to his young lover, John’s hand comes to rest reassuringly on Sherlock’s thin shoulder.  The doctor bristles at the elder Holmes, who has come into his home, upset his boyfriend, and ruined what John had hoped would be a relaxing evening in.  “Sherlock doesn’t need anyone to ‘talk some sense into him’,” John says tightly, his anger flaring as he narrows his eyes at Mycroft.  “Besides, I don’t make his choices for him.”  The “ _unlike some people_ ” hangs heavy in the air between them.  “He’s perfectly capable of making decisions on his own.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise slightly on his forehead, but that is the only indication that he is surprised by John’s vehemence and words.  “Indeed,” the Holmes brother says ambiguously.  He sits there for a moment more, watching John and Sherlock glare heatedly at him, before he rouses himself from John’s chair, using his umbrella to push himself up to stand.  “If you are at all interested in securing a better future for yourself, Sherlock, I can pull some strings and make it possible for you to take your A-Levels once more.  You know that it will be no small feat for me to do that,” Mycroft can’t help but point out, a haughty look on his face, “but I will make it happen.  For you.”

Sherlock simply scoffs derisively, as if he wants to say _“How generous of you_ ”, but he manages to keep his mouth shut, miraculously.

Mycroft ignores him.  “If you score higher, like I know you are capable of doing, you can be accepted to a more prestigious university.  It’s for the best, Sherlock,” he says, looking down at his little brother, still sitting in the opposite chair.  “You know it is.  You’ve given up enough of yourself.  You deserve every chance to reach your full potential.”

“How would you know what I’ve given up, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks him in a voice that is deathly quiet, speaking for the first time since John has come home.  His knees are still drawn up to his chest and his arms are still wrapped around his legs, yet the look he is giving his older brother says he is anything but reticent.  “You never cared enough to pay any attention to me when I needed someone before now.  Besides, I can reach my full potential right here.”  He reaches a large hand out to grasp John’s, squeezing slightly, in plain view of his brother.  John is surprised by the gesture because he has never known Sherlock to make any kind of outward display of affection in front of his brother.  John knows that nothing is insignificant when it comes to the Holmes brothers, and every word and movement gets logged away as data.

Mycroft notices his younger brother’s display and lets his gaze linger over John and Sherlock.  What he sees between them, John doesn’t know, but it makes the edges of Mycroft’s thin lips tighten and causes a small frown to wrinkle his brow.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more often when you were younger, Sherlock,” Mycroft says unexpectedly, voice quiet and soft in the sudden silence of their sitting room.  “Perhaps if I was, you wouldn’t feel the need to subjugate yourself to this.”

The words hit John like a blow to the chest.  That anyone could think he is forcing Sherlock to be with him, deciding how Sherlock should live his life, that John is forcing him to do any of these things that they do together, makes John sick.  He steps away from Sherlock and makes a very controlled motion towards their door with his open palm.  He notices that, despite his anger, his hand doesn’t shake in the slightest.  “I think it’s time that you left, Mycroft,” he tells the elder Holmes, his tone icy and succinct.

Mycroft simply stares at him for a moment, a small look of surprise coming over his face which he hides away in an instant, as if he was unprepared for John’s sudden anger at his words.  “Of course,” is all Mycroft says as he makes his way out of their flat without another word or backwards glance towards them.

John watches him go until he feels his rage subside enough that he doesn’t feel the desire to punch a hole through a wall any longer.

“Fuck,” John says on a loud sigh as he falls onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands.  He could really use a drink right about now, and there was a time just a few short months ago when he wouldn’t have thought twice about reaching into a well-stocked cabinet and pouring himself a glass of scotch.  It was the way he had dealt with most problems throughout his crumbling marriage, and the years had formed a habit that had a strong hold on him by the time Sherlock had shown up in his life.  Not only did John suffer due to his addiction, but he had made Sherlock suffer as well, even if the teen never said anything out loud.  John doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the night he came to Sherlock, angry at Mary and drunk….He’d stopped drinking after that. 

Sherlock hadn’t asked him to do it; in fact, Sherlock had said that John didn’t have to.  But John had been disgusted with himself, with the fact that he could do something like that to Sherlock.  Sherlock had been hurt too much in his life already by people who were supposed to love and care for him.  John would be damned if he was going to be one of them, too.  So he gave up drinking.  He’d give up anything for Sherlock: drinking, his wife, a good life after no one would hire him as a doctor, a steady career after his medical discharge from the Army.

He’d given it all up and hadn’t even thought twice about it.  And he hasn’t regretted a single thing.  He is exactly where he wants to be, in a small flat in the middle of London, with a landlady who has a bad habit of walking in at inopportune times to bring them tea and desserts, and a nosey almost-brother-in-law who he wants to punch in the face more often than not.

But he has Sherlock now, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.  John tries to remember that.  He doesn’t want Mycroft’s words to get to him, he hates the fact that they do, but he can’t help thinking about what the older Holmes brother said. 

Beside him on the sofa, he feels the cushions dip and move.  Sherlock’s weight and body heat settle into place next to him as John keeps his face hidden away behind the cover of his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees.

“How long had he been here this time?” John mumbles from behind his palms, and Sherlock nudges one of the man’s elbows from his knee so that he can rest his curly brunet head on John’s thigh while he lies down and stretches out along the rest of the sofa.

“About an hour,” Sherlock replies softly.  John peers at him from behind his fingers to see a frown marring Sherlock’s young, smooth face.

“Shit.  I’m sorry.  You should have texted.  I’d have tried to come home sooner.”  John knows how much Sherlock hates being around Mycroft.  Honestly, John doesn’t blame him.

Sherlock only shrugs, his bony shoulders digging into John’s thigh.  “It wouldn’t have mattered.  It wouldn’t have stopped him saying any of the things he did.”

John knows that he’s right.

“Sherlock,” John begins cautiously, because he doesn’t really know quite how to say what he is thinking, what he wants to know.  “You don’t think that I…I mean, you don’t feel like I…make you do anything…you don’t want to, do you?  Not just…well, not just in bed,” his ears flame, “but in your life as well?” 

As John asks the question, he can’t help his eyes automatically drifting towards their refrigerator, and the piece of paper that is sellotaped to the door.  It is the list of rules for Sherlock to follow while they scene that he and the teen had made not long after they had moved into Baker Street together.  After it was made, John had proudly hung it up; a lewd imitation of a doting parent putting up their child’s favourite piece of artwork.  The rules had gone up because—even though they had just moved in together, even though they finally belonged to one another—John could still feel Sherlock struggling against the desire to give himself up completely when they played.  Sherlock was constantly holding something back from John, keeping something in, and John knew that they couldn’t continue if Sherlock didn’t let go and give himself over to John absolutely; if Sherlock didn’t let John finally, completely take care of him, the way that John yearned to.  John realises now that perhaps the elder Holmes stumbling upon this list was what had instigated Mycroft’s unnecessary comment, and he feels his face heat and his belly churn with unease.  The rules had been made to take care of Sherlock, though, to help him, and each one had been agreed upon together by _both_ John and Sherlock, carefully and with the utmost consideration and respect for each other. 

Still, John feels the need to clarify, as if Sherlock needs a reminder.  “I mean, you know you can do anything you like, go to any university you want.  I’d never want to hold you back from anything,” John tells him.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to comprehend John’s shame over the whole issue.  He simply scoffs, burrowing his head deeper into John’s thigh, and states rather imperiously, “Of course I know that, John.  Don’t be stupid.”

That makes the man feel immensely better, even though he should feel slightly offended.  For some reason, though, John doesn’t.  He just feels warm and happy inside at Sherlock’s words.

He grins idiotically.  “All right, then,” he says, smiling stupidly down at his lover.  He lets his hand drift over to comb through Sherlock’s curls and the two sit on the sofa placidly for a moment, content.  They bask in the Mycroft-free silence of Baker Street before John feels Sherlock begin to squirm against his leg uneasily.

Sherlock turns his face further into John’s thigh, hiding what looks suspiciously like a blush, before he mumbles out a soft, “John?”

“Hmm?” the man asks, still carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  He is surprised at how easy it is to relax once he gets back to Baker Street after a long day of work; once he gets back _home_ , to Sherlock.  The thought is still so new and novel that it sends a shiver of delight up his spine every time it floats across his mind.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his lap, though, and John tries to focus on the moment.  Sherlock is obviously trying to talk about something he is embarrassed about, and John knows he should probably pay attention.  “Do you think I should take the tests again and get accepted somewhere else?”

John takes a moment to respond, weighing his words carefully.  He knows what Sherlock is actually afraid of, even if he won’t say it out loud.  Sherlock is scared of no longer being able to just fade into the background when he is around people, of no longer being invisible, the way he had spent his life before John had met him.  Safe and alone.

He is scared of the possibility of having to leave John, the only person who has ever taken care of him.

If John is honest with himself, he is scared of that, too.  He doesn’t want Sherlock to leave him to go off to some fancy university to study, but he would never _ever_ deny the teen the chance to do so.  He knows that he can’t be the one to make this decision, though, and neither can Mycroft.  This is something that Sherlock has to decide on his own, or else he’ll only end up resenting everyone for making the choice for him.  John knows the genius well enough to understand that.

He sighs and bends down low to place a kiss on Sherlock’s temple.  “You do whatever makes you most comfortable, baby,” he says, straightening back up and smoothing Sherlock’s hair away from his forehead.  “I know you don’t like feeling so different from everyone else because of how smart you are, Sherlock, but you shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are.  I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, though.  That’s a choice you have to make on your own.  I know you think that you might end up somewhere new all alone but just remember that I’ll be here for you, no matter what you choose.”

It’s the truth, because even if Sherlock chooses to retake his A-Levels and head off to Oxford or Cambridge or God knows where—even, heaven help him, to the States—John would wait for him.  It would break his heart to have Sherlock leave him behind after they have finally managed to properly be together; after John has divorced his wife, after Sherlock has graduated high school, and after John is no longer his teacher and living in constant fear of going to jail for his relationship with his former student.  It has always been one of John’s biggest fears: Sherlock leaving him behind, with that great big brain of his and so much potential in front of him, so much future.  But John will support him and John will help him and John will always be there for him, no matter what.  That much is a certainty.

Sherlock takes a moment to think about it, which John appreciates.  It is not a long moment, granted, but it doesn’t have to be long with Sherlock Holmes.  Even a few second’s pause means that he has probably considered multiple possibilities and their outcomes, and discarded any he deemed as failures.

“I want to go to university here, in London,” Sherlock says lowly, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet of their sitting room.  His hands move up to clench and tighten around John’s trousers, fingers tangling in the khaki material until they turn white in desperation.  “I want to stay with you,” he urges, voice growing frantic quickly.

“Okay, all right, baby,” John soothes, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair some more, letting them slip down the pale neck and stroke over the warm skin there tenderly.  “Shh, it’s all right.”

He feels Sherlock’s fingers loosen their grip slowly, and there is another small pause before Sherlock’s voice breaks the silence once again, still tiny and frightened.  “John?” he asks again.  “What if…?”  He doesn’t finish, simply trails off, as though he can’t even voice the thought in his head.

Sherlock will never say it, but John knows.  John knows all of the things that Sherlock will never say out loud.  All of the things that Sherlock will swear he doesn’t care about, the things he will say don’t bother him—but John knows that the kid is only human, after all.  And John knows all too well that beneath Sherlock’s icy exterior beats the delicate, sensitive heart of a young child, so easily shattered and hurt and broken.

_‘What if I don’t make any friends at university?  What if no one likes me?  What if everyone makes fun of me?  What if I get picked on?  What if I’m left all alone again?’_

“You’ll be fine,” John promises him, wrapping his hands softly around Sherlock’s shoulders and turning him, urging Sherlock to sit up so that John can see his face better.  “Look at me, Sherlock,” he tells the teen, and waits until Sherlock turns worried, doleful eyes on him.  “You’re wonderful, and amazing, and brilliant.  Besides, you’ll always have me,” John reminds him, bending forward to give Sherlock a kiss on his soft, full lips.  “Don’t ever forget that, baby.”

He means to pull away after that, because he knows that Sherlock is upset and he knows that Sherlock has a lot to think about, and John doesn’t want to influence him in any way.  He prepares to stand up and leave Sherlock alone on the sofa to mull things over for a bit.  Before he can disentangle himself from the brunet, though, Sherlock is pressing deeper into the kiss, surging forward, pushing John back into the cushions as he crawls into the man’s lap and straddles him.

“Sherlock—?” he starts to ask but the younger male cuts him off with a soft whimper and a harsh clench of his hands on the front of John’s plaid shirt.

“Need you, Daddy,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips, so softly that John would have missed it had it not been for Sherlock saying the words directly against his mouth.

John’s resolve crumbles, floating away like ash in the wind.  He knows that Sherlock is scared and uncertain, and sometimes Sherlock just needs his Daddy to make things better, to make him feel safe and happy again.

John forgets about the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this with Sherlock right now and wraps his arms around his little boy, kissing him back.  He presses up against Sherlock, rubbing their groins together and feeling Sherlock’s growing erection.  John groans at the pressure as Sherlock grinds down to get more friction and before he can stop himself he is switching their positions, flipping Sherlock carefully onto his back on the sofa cushions and stretching out on top of him, kneeling between Sherlock’s spread thighs as he begins to undress the teen. 

John works the flies of Sherlock’s trousers open while Sherlock’s long fingers fumble with his own shirt buttons.  By the time John has the brunet’s trousers, pants, and socks off, Sherlock is barely to the last button.  John doesn’t give him the chance to remove the shirt, though—he impatiently attacks Sherlock’s chest, pushing the fabric out of the way and taking a hard, pink nipple into his mouth.  Sherlock cries out at the sudden warm wetness, the sharp sting of teeth, and arches into John’s ministrations, his prick twitching restlessly against John’s clothed stomach.

John continues to kiss and lick his way down Sherlock’s body until he reaches the straining cock.  He takes Sherlock slowly into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the glistening, wet head and tasting bitter, warm precome.  Another wave of it swells up immediately and smears across John’s tongue as he takes Sherlock’s cock deeper into his throat, barely giving him a chance to get used to the sensation.  Sherlock moans and his fingers clench in John’s short hair, and John grins around his mouthful as the tip of Sherlock’s prick nudges the back of his throat.  He swallows around it, keeping his head still.  The muscles of his throat are the only thing that moves, and Sherlock cries out and tries to buck up deeper into him.  John has to press him rather roughly into the sofa cushions so that Sherlock doesn’t end up choking him; he’s such a greedy, impatient little thing when it comes to getting his cock sucked.

John pulls off of his prick with an obscene, wet sound and chuckles.

“Did you like that, baby?”

Sherlock can’t even form words; he simply stares at John with something akin to wonder in his wide, pale green eyes and nods his head dumbly.

“Do you want to come in Daddy’s mouth?” John asks, and he expects an answer from Sherlock this time.  He moves one hand to stroke Sherlock’s wet cock, still slick from his spit, while the other hand pushes his long legs farther apart, keeping him spread open.  His own cock throbs in his trousers, but he ignores it for now.  He knows his little boy will take care of him later.

Sherlock squirms under John’s onslaught of sensation, his long, slender cock trembling in John’s gun-calloused hand.  “Can I, Daddy?” he asks the older man, voice barely a whisper, filled with need.  “Please?”

John can barely contain the groan that wants to escape his throat at the sight of Sherlock below him, spread out and looking so young and thoroughly debauched, completely at John’s mercy.  John lightens his strokes on Sherlock’s cock and bends down to give him a deep, meaningful kiss.  “You’re so good, sweetheart,” John tells him when they part.  “You can have anything you want.” 

Sherlock looks at him with bashful eyes and John can see the unasked question before the brunet even opens his mouth.

_Anything?_   Sherlock’s demure look and endearing blush asks.

“Anything at all, baby,” John repeats, running a calloused hand tenderly down the side of Sherlock’s face.  “Always.  And I’ll always make sure that you have it.  I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy.  You know that, right?”

Sherlock breathes in, and the sound rattles as a small tremor racks his body.  He stares at John for a long moment in silence, as if he is trying to find something, deduce something.  But whatever it is, he must find the right answer, because he graces John with the most brilliant, beautiful smile, and simply says, “Yes,” before stretching his neck up to demand another kiss from his Daddy.

John chuckles and indulges him for a moment before pulling away and sliding back down Sherlock’s body, intent on showing his little lovebug just how happy John can make him.

He starts with light, teasing licks because he knows how they drive Sherlock wild.  He nibbles at the frenulum and uses his hand to stroke Sherlock’s shaft, pulling his foreskin forward so that John can run his tongue underneath it.  He mouths at the excess skin that he pushes over the tip, lips at it as he presses it back down Sherlock’s length when he takes the brunet back into his throat.  Then he pulls off and leaves Sherlock wet and aching and bare.

He does this several times—could happily do it for hours—until Sherlock grows impatient and finally grabs his hair with a low growl and pulls John down onto his cock, keeping him there, as Sherlock steadily begins to fuck his face.  John allows this for only a second as he gets used to the depth and speed that Sherlock needs to get off, but then his hands come back up to hold Sherlock’s hips still and his head takes over the rhythm, bobbing to the same tempo which Sherlock had set.  Like this, though, John can use his tongue as well, instead of simply trying to keep from gagging as Sherlock fucks into him with too much exuberance.

It doesn’t take long.  Sherlock always loves it when his Daddy sucks his cock, and his little pet is eager and impatient and strung tight after the visit from his brother.  John can feel the muscles of Sherlock’s thighs begin to tense on either side of his head, can feel the brunet’s stomach clench as Sherlock’s moans and gasps increase.  John takes him deeper, sucks him harder, and in an instant he feels Sherlock’s cock twitching against his tongue and the warm, salty bitterness of come flooding the back of his throat.  He quickly swallows it down, sliding his tongue softly up and down Sherlock’s jerking prick to coax the last dregs of orgasm from him.  Sherlock lies on the sofa and lets John work over him as he tries to catch his breath, his stomach heaving against John’s face and John’s hands as the man runs soothing fingers up and down his bare skin.  When John finally pulls off him, Sherlock is still hard, but so is John, and only one of them has found relief.

“Daddy’s turn, kitten,” John says, voice gone rough with arousal as he stands up on trembling legs and begins working on getting his own trousers open, too impatient to wait any longer.  He is so turned on that his hands are shaking with the desire to have Sherlock, and the slight wetness of spit that is still smeared on his lips mixed with a small amount of Sherlock’s semen isn’t helping.  “Come here and suck my cock, like I did for you.”

Sherlock is more than willing.  He budges up on the sofa cushions so that he is level with John’s cock when the man leans over him, but then lays prostrate there, head turned to the side and mouth open obscenely wide, so that John can use him how he likes.  John finishes undressing and moves into position quickly, standing by Sherlock’s head and groaning when he finally slides his stiff prick into the warm cavern of Sherlock’s waiting mouth.

“Fuck,” John curses, clenching his eyes shut and willing himself not to come as he thrusts deep into Sherlock’s throat.  Sherlock takes him masterfully, relaxing the muscles and letting spit well-up and slick the way.  John chances a look down at him and sees that he is stroking himself, his cock still red and engorged despite his rather large orgasm only minutes before.

“Christ, look at how hard you are.  You just came, you naughty little thing.  Do you want to go again?”

Sherlock looks up at him with wide eyes, wet with reflexive tears, his mouth stretched open around John’s thick cock and nods as best he can, moaning out something that could be translated into a “yes”.

John’s grip on the back of the sofa tightens at the sound and he fucks into Sherlock’s face harder, faster.

John doesn’t know how much longer he can last.  He would be embarrassed about his stamina, but Sherlock is too beautiful and too eager for his own good sometimes, and John is completely helpless against him.  Sherlock gives his own cock a good, long stroke that sends him moaning and shuddering and that is all John can take in that moment.

John pulls out and comes across Sherlock’s lips and cheek, pulling at himself and panting as he looks down at the gorgeous vision below him.  Sherlock lies there motionless for John as he climaxes; the only movement of his body is his hand stroking over himself down the length of the sofa.  As he gets closer to his own orgasm, though, he stretches up and takes the head of John’s cock back into his mouth.  John makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and jerks at the slight over-stimulation, but lets Sherlock suck softly on the tip of his prick.

He knows how much Sherlock loves to come while his Daddy’s cock is in his mouth.  Usually, if Sherlock is going to get off while giving John a blow job, they make sure that Sherlock is finished by the time John comes, because of how sensitive John gets afterwards.  The man had not been anticipating Sherlock’s level of desperation today, though, but he won’t deny his baby boy something that Sherlock wants or needs, despite how uncomfortable he feels.

So he grits his teeth and lets Sherlock suck him, even though his cock is so sensitive that it aches.

He can feel his lover getting closer to finishing, hear it in the soft noises Sherlock makes around his cock.  He can feel it also in the jerky movements as Sherlock pulls himself off, the muscles growing tense under John’s hands as he rubs softly along Sherlock’s chest and stomach.

“There you go, come on, baby,” he coaxes soothingly while Sherlock whines around his mouthful as he finally manages a second climax.

John holds the base of his own cock while Sherlock squirms and moans through his orgasm, keeping the tip in the plush mouth for him to suck on, muffling his cries and moans.  Sherlock’s come gets everywhere as he continues to stroke himself furiously, landing on his stomach and chest.  Some of it gets on John’s arm where it is gently rubbing Sherlock’s belly and a few drops even land on the sofa.  John will have to remember to clean the upholstery before they have any more surprise visits from landladies or big brothers.

“That’s it, baby.  There you go,” he praises as Sherlock comes down from his orgasm and his stroking slows by increments.  He is suckling very gently on the head of John’s cock, knowing how sensitive the man is after he climaxes, and his tongue is a soft warmth against the engorged, tender head.  John slowly pulls out of his mouth and bends over him to give him a kiss, wiping away streaks of his own come with his thumbs as he holds Sherlock’s face still.  “Beautiful,” John tells him, grinning happily.

Sherlock smiles shyly back at him, face smeared with wetness and shining in the dull light of their sitting room.

John looks down at him and has the sudden impulse to tell him _‘No one else has to like you, because you are mine.’_   He wants to tell Sherlock that it shouldn’t matter what other people think of the teen; the only thing that should matter is what John thinks of him, what John wants from him.  But John knows these thoughts are more than a bit not good.  He isn’t the only thing in Sherlock’s life, and the fact that he wants to be—that he feels this all-consuming _desire_ to be—scares him slightly.  So, instead, he keeps his mouth shut and his slightly unhealthy, unhelpful, co-dependent thoughts to himself.

“You’ll be fine, baby,” he repeats, shifting around with heavy limbs next to Sherlock so that he is lying on the sofa and then dragging his lover down on top of him.  He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s thin shoulders and kisses his sweaty forehead and feels Sherlock burrow into his side with a happy sigh.  “Everything will be all right.  You’ll see.”

And he knows that Sherlock believes him, because Sherlock trusts John to take care of him.


	2. Chapter 2

One autumn day, not long into the start of his university term, Sherlock stomps into Baker Street and slams the door, throwing his book bag onto the floor by the entryway.

“God, I’m such an idiot!” he shouts out loud as he thunders into the flat.  He throws himself onto the sofa rather dramatically, causing John to raise an eyebrow at him from his spot in the kitchen.  He is standing by the kettle, making them both a cup of tea, knowing that Sherlock would be home from university soon.

“Bad day, love?” John asks, coming out of the kitchen and setting the cup down in front of Sherlock, made just the way the teen likes it.  He rubs a hand soothingly along Sherlock’s shoulders as he sits next to the student, squeezing the back of his neck and tangling his fingers in the thick curls at the base of his spine soothingly.

“Someone tried to talk to me today,” Sherlock informs him, but his voice is detached, clinical.  Sherlock isn’t looking at him; instead, he is staring off into the empty fireplace on the other side of the room, as if he is thinking hard about something.

“Oh?” John asks, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.  He _is_ surprised, though, because it has been weeks since Sherlock started university, and John asks him every day if he has made any friends and the answer is always the same.

“They were friendly,” Sherlock continues.  “To _me_.”  He says it like he almost doesn’t believe anyone would _want_ to be friendly toward him.

John pauses for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to go on, but the teen doesn’t.  He just keeps staring into the fireplace.  “And?” John prods him finally, when he can’t take it any longer.  “What happened?”

“I acted like an idiot, that’s what happened!” Sherlock shouts out unexpectedly, throwing his arms up so suddenly that John has to lean back in order to avoid being hit by the lanky limbs that the man-child still hasn’t fully grown into yet.  “I was so awkward.  You’d think that I’d never had contact with another human being, the way I behave around them.”  Sherlock turns away from John, back towards the fireplace and shakes his head, mumbling to himself with a deep frown on his face and a self-deprecating tone which John doesn’t like at all, “I’m so pathetic.  I finally get the chance to make a friend and I cock it up.”

John sits there for a moment, staring at him, surprised.  “You actually _wanted_ to be friends with someone?  Why would you do that?” he asks before he can stop himself.  It just seems so out of character for the prickly teenager.  Sherlock has always been very independent, very aloof and very intolerant of other people.  John can’t see Sherlock actually _wanting_ to make friends with anyone.

It seems that he’s wrong, though, because Sherlock sits quietly on the couch next to him, huddled into himself and looking like he wants to disappear.  “It wouldn’t have been unpleasant to have someone to talk to every once in a while when I’m at lessons,” he mumbles lowly, and John is reminded very suddenly that Sherlock is, indeed, not the cold-hearted machine that the brunet likes to think he is, but is instead a young, vulnerable teenager who still struggles with wanting to be accepted.  “Besides,” Sherlock says, scowling at John and breaking the illusion, “you were the one who wanted me to make friends, John.”

This is very true; John can’t deny that.  John sighs and wraps Sherlock up in a tender hug, letting the child hide his face in John’s chest.  “Tell me all about it, love.”

Sherlock huffs as if he is about to tell John off for being patronising, but then he mumbles into John’s striped shirt, “I have chemistry lessons with him.  He asked me how I was fairing with our latest assignment.”

“And?”

“And I told him that I was doing well and had most of it complete already.  He was surprised.  He said that he barely had the first portion done.  He said that he didn’t understand the material.  I told him that if he didn’t understand the material then he must be an idiot.”

John winces.  He’s been on the receiving end of one of Sherlock’s “you must be an idiot” tirades and knows that there is more to it than that.  “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I _meant_ that the material is so easy that if someone doesn’t understand it then they must be an idiot,” Sherlock explains.  “I was insulting the _material_ , John.  Not him specifically,” he argues.

The corners of John’s lips twitch.  “I take it he didn’t see it that way?” he asks, and Sherlock just huffs and shakes his head.  “What did he do?”

A frustrated noise escapes the teen’s throat and he sits up and flicks his hands repeatedly through his hair.  John can clearly see just how irritated with himself Sherlock truly is; his cheeks are flushed with anger and his movements are jerky and agitated.  “I wouldn’t know.  I realised what I said and got so embarrassed that I turned around and walked away.”

John winces again.  He feels badly for the kid, he truly does.  He knows how frustrating things can get for Sherlock inside that great big mind of his, but the brunet can never seem to make it easy for himself.  “Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” John says softly on an exasperated sigh.  They sit there for a moment in an awkward silence as John struggles to find words to soothe him.  “Well, maybe you can try again on Monday…” he starts, but he trails off because the platitude sounds strange directed toward Sherlock.

He wants to say more, though.  He wants to say that it will be okay, that it really isn’t as bad as it seems.  Before the words can come out, though, Sherlock is up and out of his seat, pacing about the sitting room anxiously, mumbling to himself incoherently and frowning deeply.  John watches for a moment, wondering what to do.  He has never seen Sherlock this way over what someone else might think about him, and he is, quite frankly, a little stunned.  He watches, at a loss, as Sherlock finally seems to settle down long enough to stop pacing and stand in front of the mirror above their mantle, staring thoughtfully at his reflection before sighing sadly. 

“I don’t understand, John,” Sherlock says quietly.  He may be saying the words to John but it seems as though he is speaking to himself.  His eyes are gazing steadily at his reflection.  “Why am I so awkward and strange?”

That rouses John into action.  He makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat and frowns at the other male’s reflection in the mirror.  “Sherlock,” he says disapprovingly, though his tone is soft and gentle.  “Remember our rules?” John asks, motioning with his hand over to the paper that is hanging up on their fridge. 

It is still new to them, having this list of rules they live by.  Still different.  But in the past, John had felt that Sherlock needed more structure and guidelines in this game that they played, so that he knew when he was doing right and when he was doing wrong.  Sherlock has always loved to push his boundaries and has always had trouble communicating his needs and desires to John.  Even after all the time they spent playing in the past, Sherlock still refused to let John completely take care of him, to give himself over to the man fully.  John couldn’t really blame him, though.  It is scary, giving yourself up to someone in such a way.  But when they moved into Baker Street together, John knew that things had to change, and not just with Sherlock.  Especially after the stunt the teen pulled when he ran off to get high, leaving for days without telling John where he was.  The thought of it still turns his stomach in knots.

John, for his part, has always had trouble drawing the line when it comes to Sherlock, but coming up with a list of rules has helped them both.  Sherlock needed to learn how to give up the last little piece of himself he had been holding back, and John had to learn where to stop in his pursuit of taking care of Sherlock.  He had to learn that he couldn’t, actually, give the child everything, and that not everything in Sherlock’s broken past could be fixed.  Moving in together had been a big adjustment for each of them.  Both of them were accustomed to being miserable for so long that they are still getting used to the feeling of being content and happy for the first time in years.  The rules help give structure to that, and John thinks that now is the perfect time to put them to the test.  There is one rule that John put on the list for Sherlock to follow that is specifically meant for moments like this, because he knows how prone Sherlock is to self-loathing, and John wants it to stop. 

“I think now would be a good time to say one thing about yourself that you like,” John tells him.  “ ‘No self-loathing or self-pity’, remember?” he repeats the rule word for word.

Sherlock just scoffs at John, turning away from the mirror above the mantle as if he can’t stand the sight of himself for a second longer.  His shoulders are still slumped dejectedly and he is not looking the older man in the eye.  “I don’t want to play right now, John,” he mumbles.  “I’m not in the mood.”

John frowns at him.  “That rule wasn’t exclusive to playing, Sherlock.  You know that.  We do it every day.  Now, come on.  Tell me, baby.”  Even though “baby” is something that John only calls him when they are in a scene or having sex, and Sherlock has specifically stated that he doesn’t feel like playing right now, John still takes the chance and calls him by the pet name.  He thinks it might help nudge the other male into his headspace, where Sherlock is always more relaxed and malleable to John’s attempts at comfort and care.

But Sherlock simply pouts and frowns, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I don’t want to,” he says petulantly, and John can hear the quivering beginnings of a tantrum in his voice.  John had been right: Sherlock does want to be in his headspace, though he won’t admit it, but he is fighting it so hard that if John is not careful and Sherlock goes into “little” mode, it will be a stroppy, bratty, hurt Sherlock that John has on his hands instead of his sweet, cuddly little honeybee.

John thinks for a moment, weighs his options, and makes a decision.  Still sitting on the sofa with Sherlock staring at him angrily, he holds his arms out to his lover, open wide.  “Come here, love.”

Sherlock looks at him confusedly for a moment and hesitates before finally giving in and shuffling over to crawl into John’s lap, curling up ridiculously against the shorter man.  Sherlock has continued to grow over the course of their relationship, and shows no signs of stopping any time soon, but they make no mention of it.  They fit themselves around one another as best they can, adjusting as needed every few weeks to compensate for Sherlock’s sudden added height.

Once Sherlock is settled against the man, John wraps his arms around the brunet, pulling him even closer and finding the empty spaces in Sherlock’s body where John’s limbs fit perfectly.  He nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck and places a soft, wet kiss into the warm, heavily-scented skin there.  “Can I, then?” John asks him.

John can feel Sherlock frown at him against his chest, confused.  “Can you what?” Sherlock asks, voice muffled by John’s cardigan.

“Tell you something that I like about you,” John answers, as if it should be obvious.

He feels Sherlock shrug his shoulders silently, giving in to John with a blush, without saying a word.

“I like your hair and your eyes,” John tells him, and as he talks he lets one hand wander over Sherlock’s body while the other keeps hold of the brunet tightly.  “I love your mind.  You’re so brilliant, Sherlock.  You know that?”  His hand finds the flies of Sherlock’s trousers and begins to work them open gently as he continues talking.  Sherlock looks up at him with wide eyes and it seems that he is going to say something to John, but then the man’s hand grazes his stiffening erection, and the teen simply inhales sharply and lifts his hips to allow John better access.  “Amazing,” John continues, slipping his hand inside Sherlock’s open trousers and dragging his cock out to stroke it.  “Wonderful.  Gorgeous.  I love the way you smile, and I love the way you smell.  I love the way you fit right into my arms, even after how much you’ve grown, and I love the way you let me take care of you, baby.”  Sherlock is leaking shamelessly now, so quickly, and John uses the precome to ease the slide of skin on skin.

“John,” Sherlock moans, voice shaking, arching into John’s touch.  “It was only supposed to be one thing.”

John chuckles at that, letting his hand keep up the steady rhythm.  “I can’t stop at just one thing with you,” he informs Sherlock truthfully.  “One thing is never enough.  Not when it comes to you.”

“John,” Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes and biting his bottom lip, and John can tell he is already close.

“Come on, baby,” he urges, not even caring that they have barely even started.  Sometimes he loves the fact that he can make Sherlock lose all control.  “Come for me.”

“Oh, God!” Sherlock cries out, and he sounds as if he is surprised by his orgasm, as though the feeling had snuck up on him quickly and he was unprepared for it.  He sits in John’s lap, in John’s arms, sweaty and half-dressed, breathing heavily.

“That’s it,” John whispers as he leans forward to give Sherlock a kiss.  “Beautiful.  Love you so much, baby.  So beautiful.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes as the man strokes the last shivers of orgasm from his body.

They sit there for a moment while Sherlock comes back down, and as he begins to squirm in John’s lap, their attention is drawn to John’s unmistakable erection.  “Do you want me to do you, now?” Sherlock asks, his face still flushed from his own orgasm.

John thinks he looks endearing and completely adorable curled up in the man’s lap.  He smiles at Sherlock warmly and gives him a kiss.  “No, love,” he says, pulling away but not going far.  “That was just for you.  I’m fine.”

Sherlock seems like he is about to protest, so John silences him with another kiss.  And then another, and another, until he finally pulls away and Sherlock doesn’t look like he wants to argue with John any longer.

“Maybe we should go out for dinner tonight, instead of ordering a takeaway,” John says, giving Sherlock a final kiss on the nose.  “We can go to that little Chinese place you love.  Haven’t been there in a while.”  He runs his hands over Sherlock’s still-clothed body, relishing the soft, pliable feel of him after an orgasm.  “What do you say, sweetheart?  Will you eat something for me tonight?”

Sherlock sighs in a way that John knows he wants the man to believe is annoyed, but it just sounds satiated to John.  “Fine.”

John beams at him.  “Come on, baby.  Let me help you get cleaned up and dressed.”  He knows that Sherlock can do it on his own, but that’s not the point.  The point is that John wants to take care of Sherlock right now, and Sherlock is letting him.  John doesn’t think he could be any happier than he is in that moment.  They wash up, and John battles his erection the entire time.  It certainly is a turn-on, and a privilege, being allowed to treat Sherlock this way.  Yet John hadn’t been lying when he said that he’d wanted to let Sherlock have something just for him, without worrying about getting John off.  So in the end, John’s resolve had won out, and he willed his erection down.

Once they are cleaned, washed, and dressed, they leave Baker Street.  As they are walking out of their door and past Speedy’s sandwich shop, a tall, tan young waiter with wide shoulders, tousled golden curls and a white smile bumps into Sherlock.  He turns to say he’s sorry and stops short, his grin turning wide and beaming in an instant.

“Oh, it’s you!” the blond teen says to Sherlock, looking pleasantly surprised.  He has an appealing-sounding voice and an American accent, and John figures that he can’t be very much older than Sherlock’s age.

John looks over to Sherlock and finds his lover blushing, looking decidedly awkward and uncomfortable.  “Er, hello,” Sherlock responds, shoving his hands deep inside his trouser pockets, as if he is unsure what he wants to do with them.

The other teen doesn’t seem put off by Sherlock’s awkward social mannerisms, though.  He continues to stand there and smile politely at Sherlock, making pleasant small talk.  “Funny bumping into you around here,” he says.  “Visiting your dad?”  His bright blue eyes shift over to look at John, and the doctor suddenly finds himself feeling disturbingly self-conscious, sizing himself up against a teenager in a way he hasn’t since he himself was that age. 

John has to force himself to stop and take a deliberate step away from Sherlock.  They haven’t discussed telling people about their relationship, and he doesn’t want to embarrass Sherlock by coming across as the jealous, over-bearing lover.

“No, I live just there,” Sherlock says, pointing to the flat he shares with John.

“What a coincidence!  I just started work here at Speedy’s part time,” the young blond says, his smile widening.  “Well, now that I know you live right next door, maybe we can get together to study.  You know, since you seem to be doing so well with the chemistry lessons and all—” he teases, and John is shocked to see a deep flush rise up on Sherlock’s cheeks, painting them a pretty pink colour that is too attractive for the brunet’s own good.

“Sherlock,” he interrupts as gently as he can from his spot on the sidewalk.  He doesn’t move any closer, and his voice is pitched low and calm, but it is taking all of his self-control to not reach out and grab his lover and lay a claim on his lips.  He can’t believe the gall of this kid, _flirting_ with Sherlock right in front of John!  “We really should go, before it gets any later.”

Sherlock seems grateful for the exit, at any rate, and he spares John a glance that seems equal parts desperation and awkwardness.  “Oh, yes,” he says,  turning back to the other student, “er…I’ll,” he stumbles over his words, as if he is unsure how to say goodbye to someone in a normal social context.  John is almost embarrassed for him.  “I’ll see you later, I guess?”  He puts a strange inflection at the end of his sentence, making it sound almost like a question.

“Oh, all right, then,” the blond youth says, face falling and sounding disappointed that Sherlock has to leave so soon.  “I’ll be seeing you around.  Look for me in class on Monday—we’ll sit together.”

Sherlock blushes bright red at that and seems to lose the ability to speak.  “Y-yes—all r-right—okay—”

“Sherlock,” John says softly, giving him a gentle tug on his shirt sleeve.  “Come along, then.”  The tanned blond is grinning at Sherlock, and John wants to get his lover away from the other teenager as quickly as possible.  It’s not the mocking grin of someone who is making fun of Sherlock—it’s the playful, flirtatious smile of someone who finds Sherlock adorable, and John doesn’t like it one bit.

He pulls Sherlock away from Speedy’s and down the pavement, away from the bright blue eyes that are still watching them.  John is sure to keep his hand loose around his lover’s elbow in case Sherlock wants to pull his arm away, but Sherlock just lets John hold on to him, staying close by the man.

The two walk along in silence for a long moment before John can’t take it any longer.

“That’s the kid, then?” he asks, trying hard to keep his tone light and casual.

Sherlock simply nods his head, still too embarrassed to speak.

“Well, you can’t be friends with _him_ ,” John states rather matter-of-factly, as if all the reasons behind his words should be obvious already.

At that, Sherlock turns to him, surprise writ plain on his face.  John can understand why; the older man isn’t usually so irrational.  “Why not?” Sherlock asks, frowning in confusion.

“Look at him!” John practically shouts out, pointing a hand behind them and back towards Speedy’s.  “He’s tall and he’s tan and he’s young and he’s American!”  John ticks the reasons off on his fingers and shakes his head.  “No, sorry, nope.  You’ll just have to find a new friend.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that.  His stride as they walk becomes wider in his agitation, making John have to rush to keep up with his longer legs.  “John, no one else wants to be friends with me,” Sherlock tells him, voice filled with irritation.  “And you had just told me earlier that I should go back on Monday and try to make friends with him again,” he points out to the doctor unhelpfully.

“Yes, but that was before I knew he was the Heath Ledger of your chem class!” John shouts out, growing more and more anxious about the idea with each passing second.

Sherlock frowns at that, giving him a confused look.  “The who?”

“American pop culture reference,” John explains, sighing tiredly.  When Sherlock just looks at him blankly, John snaps out, “Oh, I don’t even know why I bother!”

*

On Monday John is home from his shift at the clinic before Sherlock comes back from uni.  He is in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich and putting together a small snack for Sherlock that he hopes the young man will eat, when his lover finally walks through the door. 

Sherlock is noticeably more subdued than he was on Friday.

He sets his book bag down on the floor by the door and quietly walks over to sofa, curling up on it before opening his laptop and beginning to type away.  John artfully balances his sandwich plate on top of his cup of tea, and Sherlock’s small plate of sliced fruit drizzled with honey onto top of another cup of tea, and walks into the sitting room.  He deposits his food and drink on the end table by his chair and then moves to take Sherlock his.  When John reaches him, he gives him the fruit and tea and a kiss on his curly head.

“Hi, love.  How were lessons?” he asks.  “Did you talk to Ansel Elgort today?”

He hears Sherlock release an annoyed huff of breath through his nose as the younger male continues typing, not glancing at John.  “I don’t know who all of these people are that you keep referring to,” he mumbles.

John laughs at that and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, tousling it affectionately.  “Never mind, honeybee, I’m just teasing,” he says as he bends down to nibble on Sherlock’s neck.  And then, because he can’t stand not knowing for a second longer, “Did you make a friend today?”  He tries to keep the question light and nonchalant, but he doubts it comes out that way—he knows that Sherlock will hear the unspoken concern underneath it anyways.

Under John’s lips, the delicate skin of Sherlock’s neck and cheeks flushes slightly and the younger man tries to duck away from him for a moment, but John won’t let him.  He wraps his arms tighter around the brunet and bites down on the sensitive skin of his neck, making Sherlock squirm slightly before he lets go and moves away.  Sherlock’s blush deepens and he won’t meet John’s eye when he says, “Yes.  His name is Victor Trevor.”

Something that feels an awful lot like jealousy flares up in John’s stomach, but he tries to stomp it down quickly.  He clears his throat.  “That’s good, Sherlock.”  He pauses to lick his lips and looks away uncomfortably.   “That’s really good.  I’m happy for you.”

He moves away from Sherlock, intending to turn his attention to his sandwich and hide his irrational feelings from his lover.  As he steps away, though, Sherlock’s hand reaches out to take hold of his own, squeezing John’s fingers harshly.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice low. 

John turns around but doesn’t have the courage to look the brunet in the eye.  Instead, he stares at their entwined fingers until Sherlock’s other hand reaches out and he takes hold of John’s face, gripping the man’s chin in his large grasp and forcing John’s gaze up. 

“John, look at me,” Sherlock instructs him, and it is strange to be the one taking orders for once.  John complies, though, and lifts his head, allowing Sherlock to turn his face so that John is looking directly at him, staring into fathomless quicksilver eyes. 

Before John can say or do anything else, Sherlock’s mouth is on him, pressing up against his own in a sweet, tender kiss.  It is the kind of kiss that John usually only gets from his little boy, when Sherlock is being bashful and shy and playful.  It is the kind of kiss that makes John’s cock twitch and his hands itch to pin Sherlock down.

“I love you,” Sherlock says, his mouth sliding wetly over John’s.  “I will always love you.  Thank you for always seeing the best in me, and for making me see it, too.”

John smiles tenderly against Sherlock’s kiss.  “You’re welcome,” he mumbles as his lips slide over the other’s.  His hands slip down the length of Sherlock’s body, rubbing over the bony crests of his hips, John’s thumbs digging in.  “I love you, too, kitten,” he says, and Sherlock moans at the feeling of John’s hands pressing into him and leans back on the sofa, giving John more access to his body. 

John takes full advantage of it.  He pushes Sherlock back against the cushions, laying him down, and runs needy hands across the front of the teen’s trousers, undoing his flies hastily, eager to get inside and feel Sherlock against his skin as he crawls over the brunet, in between his legs.  Together they manage to get Sherlock’s shoes, socks, trousers, and pants off, and his button down shirt hangs open limply across his pale torso.  They divest John of all of his clothes as quickly as possible as well, and the man suddenly curses the fact that they didn’t have the foresight to stop and grab up some lube.

Well, they’ll just have to do without, he figures.

He bends down to take the brunet into his mouth, and Sherlock cries out at the sudden wet heat and bucks up, pushing his cock deeper into John’s throat.  John can tell right away that this will be a rather short encounter.  It was unexpected, yet it is frantic in its desperation, both of them eager for each other, to know they belong to one another.  John lets Sherlock fuck his mouth, not trying to take over this time.  He lets Sherlock take what he needs from him, and it is not long before Sherlock is moaning and whimpering, coming deeply down John’s throat with his hands tangled in John’s hair and his thighs trembling around John’s head.

John swallows it all and pulls away from Sherlock.  He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth with a low growl and immediately moves up Sherlock’s body, not even giving the other male a moment to recover.  John doesn’t care.  He wants Sherlock so desperately, wants to fuck him, wants to claim him.  He hates that there was someone else, someone new, in Sherlock’s life today.  John wants to eradicate all thoughts of other people from Sherlock’s memory.  There should only be John.

John wants the genius to be marked by him all over, for everyone to see, so that everyone can know.  He wants to lay claim to Sherlock Holmes in the most primal of ways.

He settles on top of the teen’s chest, straddling his torso, and strokes himself fast and harsh, kneeling over Sherlock’s face and panting heavily.  He looks down at Sherlock and sees the glass-green eyes staring up at him, head tilted up and mouth slightly open.  His sinful, full lips are parted as if he is just waiting for John to come on him, practically begging silently for it, and John loses it.

“Fuck,” he says as his orgasm burns through him.  He continues to wank himself, rubbing the head of his cock along Sherlock’s cheek, across his mouth, and down his chin as he comes.  Sherlock’s tongue flicks out to lick up some of the mess and John rubs the underside of his cock against it, pulsing out the last drops on the warm, flat expanse of his tongue.

When his head stops spinning, he looks down at Sherlock, covered in his come, and the growling beast in his belly quiets for a moment, sated by the sight of his claim on his young lover.  John sighs happily and rubs some of the slick emission into Sherlock’s skin with his thumb, lifting his hand and bringing it up to Sherlock’s mouth for the teen to clean off.  Sherlock takes it in his mouth and sucks it wetly, and John’s cock makes a futile attempt at waking once again.

“Christ, the things you do to me, Sherlock,” John sighs out.  This isn’t normal, he knows, the way he feels, these possessive thoughts he has about Sherlock.  But still, John can’t seem to help it.  All he can do, he supposes, is try to control himself.  It shouldn’t be too hard; he is an adult, after all.  He knows they are in a committed relationship and he trusts Sherlock implicitly.  He knows there is nothing for him to worry about, logically.

He reaches down and digs his vest out of the pile of their clothes and gently wipes Sherlock up, being careful to clean off every bit of him.  Sherlock lies back placidly and lets John clean him.  When John finishes, he sits Sherlock up before telling him, “Just remember: no matter how many more friends you manage to make, I’ll always consider you my best friend, and I hope that you’ll think the same of me.”

Sherlock looks at him, surprise showing clearly on his face at John’s declaration.  Then his features soften into a tender, happy smile, completely relaxed in a way that John hardly ever sees.  “Of course I do.”  He blushes and looks away for a moment, down into his lap which he is covering with John’s soiled vest in a rather bashful manner.  “You know, before you came along, I never expected to be anyone’s best friend,” he says quietly.  “Certainly not the best friend of the bravest, kindest, and most loving man that I’ve ever known.  I just want you to know that your friendship and love are the best things in my life.”  Sherlock looks up at the blond and John is so surprised by the words coming out of Sherlock’s mouth that he can do nothing more than stare at him in shock.  “I honestly don’t know what I would do without you.  You keep me right, John.  Even after all of the stupid times I’ve messed up,” he says, and they both know he is talking about that incident not too long ago, when he had left John for days and used again, and John had been worried sick.  John had forgiven him, though.  Sherlock had needed forgiveness—would always need forgiveness—and so John would always forgive him.  Sherlock looks back up at him with a dark conviction in his eyes, mouth set in a firm line.  “You don’t ever have to worry about anyone else that I meet,” he tells John conclusively.  “No one could possibly ever compare to what you give me.  It’s always been you.  It will only ever be you.”

John smiles brightly at him, the words making his heart boundlessly, indescribably light and happy.  He leans in to give Sherlock a kiss, all tongue and promise and love.  When he pulls away he is still grinning like a fool and he doesn’t think he will be stopping any time soon.  He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and pulls the brunet’s head towards his own so that their foreheads are touching as he says, “That’s good.  Just be sure you let Jeremy Sumpter know that when you see him next time.”


End file.
